


Powdered Stars

by deltachye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, F/M, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [au - reader x painter!wakatoshi ushijima]Ushijima Wakatoshi wasn’t very familiar to you. You knew very little about him, other than the fact that he was alive. And even then, you weren’t very sure, because the few times you had come across him, he merely acknowledged you with a blink and literally nothing else—until he kidnapped your thesis, kidnapped you, and then kidnapped your heart.





	1. AD

* * *

 

It all started when he took your thesis as his hostage.

Ushijima Wakatoshi wasn’t very familiar to you. You knew very little about him, other than the fact that he was alive. And even then, you weren’t very sure, because the few times you had come across him, he merely acknowledged you with a blink and _literally_ nothing else. He’d gone to the same high school as you, which was the one reason you even _did_ have an inkling of who he was, but even then he had been quiet. You never had the opportunity to talk with him. Understandably, he didn’t have that much of an impact in your life.

But apparently, you had made one in his. A big one, too.

“I want you to be my model for my final,” he said flatly, looking down at you. You screeched with frustration in response, jumping up and down in the air like a kid for the tiny USB stick secured in his gigantic hand that looked nothing like an artist’s. He held it out of your reach quite easily and you were almost in tears. What was this guy even made of? He didn’t even have a change of expression as you pawed at his shirt, trying to scale him like a tree to reach your beloved thesis.

“What the hell, man! I need that to graduate, don’t you understand?! Come on, asshat, I don’t even _know_ you—!”

He cocked his head, looking at you strangely. You ignored the weird look completely until he suddenly reached out with his free hand, grasping your chin and stopping you effectively. You wanted to jerk free but was paralyzed by the sudden feel of his roughened fingers on your skin. You were hyperaware of your breathing; your blinking; your heartbeat raging in your ears. Staring up at him, you saw flecks of gold in deep amber eyes, as well as a splotch of violet paint clinging to the ends of his bangs. Time was still.

“It has to be you,” he said simply, letting go of you gently. Time raced to catch up with you and you felt socked in the gut, wheezing for breath. You touched your chin awkwardly, as if it might brush away the strange residual feeling he left behind. But he broke the spell and caught your attention again by tossing up your USB stick in his hand, catching it neatly in his palm. He held it up at you, quickly pulling it away when you reached.

“I’ll be keeping this as collateral so you’ll do it.”

“You’re not serious,” you breathed with disbelief. “You don’t know me. Do you even know my name?”

“It’s better that way,” he insisted with a passion that had been previously absent. You flinched. “It’s unbiased. Clarity. Purity. If I knew you, it might taint my perception of you. As a stranger I see you how I will. Don’t you understand?”

“No!” you shrilled. “I don’t! Tell it to me in formulas or-or something I get! I’m not an art major for a reason! And who are _you_ to boss me around like this, stealing my thesis right out of my laptop—!?”

“I’m Ushijima, an art major,” he responded plainly. You stared and realized he had genuinely thought you were trying to coerce an answer out of him. It deflated your rage somewhat and you slumped with some level of known defeat.

“This is blackmail,” you warned. “I could report you to the Dean.”

“And admit that you were purposely hindering my progression?”

“Because you were— _are_ —blackmailing me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and suddenly the sun hit his eyes in a way that made the gilded irises glimmer. “It looks like you lost your thesis on your own. I just happened to find it…”

“It’s my word over yours—!”

“And if you report me, then what?” he challenged, bored, having seemed to anticipate this line of questioning. “It takes weeks to process your claim and you’ll have failed your class. Let me paint you for three days. That’s all I need. Three days and then we’ll part ways. You can hand in your thesis and I’ll have a finished product. Deal?” He laid it out so straightforwardly, leaving no room for your protests, and it pissed you off. He really fucking pissed you off.

“I hate you,” you declared acridly, all the other words boiling away to those three. He merely blinked in response, making you feel a lot less intimidating in the face of the towering man.

“Great. I’ll see you in Studio Six at five.”

He walked away with your thesis in his pocket, and you couldn’t help but think that you’d signed a contract with the devil. He disappeared out the library and you realized that you knew even less about him than when you hadn’t known a thing at all.


	2. MAGNUM

You showed up to Studio Six at the agreed time, a minute late just to spite him, only to find that he wasn’t there at all. As if you needed anything else to worsen your mood. You knocked over a cup of paintbrushes in your frustration and then screamed loudly as a figure popped up from behind the clay rack, like some sort of awakened spirit demon.

“Hey. I haven’t seen you around before,” the spirit demon spoke. 

“What the _fuck_!” you swore, holding a hand over your heart. “You scared me!”

He shrugged unapologetically, running a hand up through his red hair. It looked almost vertical and was definitely unwashed. Your eyes trailed down to the obvious joint hanging from his mouth and pointed.

“Did you… um… did you roll a blunt with…?”

“What, you want a hit?” He pulled it out and gestured to you, the rubbery smell of marijuana filling your nostrils and nearly giving you an off-high. He shrugged and jammed it back into his mouth when you shook your head. “We ran out of rolling paper. So if your question was, ‘did you roll that with a painting?’, you’d be right. It’s a forgery of the Lisa. Can’t say that paint tastes good with weed…” He smacked his lips disinterestedly.

You swallowed thickly, knowing that you _definitely_ didn’t belong with this crowd. 

“You waiting for somebody?” The redhead asked suddenly, silver smoke accenting his words. “This isn’t the best place to fuck. Lots of chemicals ‘n weird shit, y’know? If you want, there’s an okay place by the stairwell, but if you’re unlucky somebody’ll hear you—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” you cut off shortly. You scoffed, shaking your head at the thought. Acridly, you muttered as an afterthought, “I’d rather die.”

“Who’re you, then?” He squinted at you suspiciously through the silver lined smoke and you shrugged.

“I’m from the faculty of engineering,” you declared as if it were your name. In this hellhole with half-finished canvases and psychedelic paintings all around, it might as well have been, for how different you were. Bitterly, you decided to elaborate, figuring that it couldn’t hurt to rant to new ears. “Some crazy guy stole my thesis so I have to model for his project. Something like that. Can you believe it?”

“Oh!” the guy blurted out, his hair matching eyes shooting wide as he pointed at you. There was an upside down pencil in his hand and he jabbed the chewed up eraser in your direction. “You gotta be Wakatoshi’s girl, right?!”

“His _girl_?” you repeated, nearly choking on yourself. You shook your head hastily. “No no, you’ve got it wrong. We’re not dating, he _blackmailed_ me into—”

“You’re cuter than I thought you’d be. Hey hey, Eita. Wake up. Wakatoshi’s girl is here.”

“Huh?”

Somebody that had also been hidden by the clay drying rack perked up, a paper plastered to the side of his face with drool. He snorted and peeled the half-finished sketch away from his face, squinting blearily at you.

“Cuter than I thought,” he mused hoarsely.

“Right?”

“I don’t really… get what’s going on,” you said dumbly, having a feeling that the two of them knew more than you did. The heavy fumes were getting to you and you blinked blearily. “But if he’s not here, I guess I’ll just go—”

“No need.”

You jumped and turned on heel, staring at Ushijima as he lugged a large wooden easel along easily. His arm muscles bulged in a barely-fitting shirt and he set the easel down, crossing the room without giving you a second’s look. In fact, he didn’t even bother to acknowledge your presence. He pinched the Mona Lisa Blunt out of the red head’s mouth and squashed it on the floor, squatting down and neatly scooping it up into the trash. The red headed guy didn’t even seem all too mad, probably too in the clouds to realize what had even happened.

“Owe me thirty bucks for that, Toshi.”

“Finish your sketch and smoke off campus, Tendou.”

“You’re even more anal than before. Deadlines up your ass?” Eita snickered, pulling his hand through his gradient coloured hair. You couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, watching a group of aliens interact, much like a person would feel watching birds squawk at each other. They cocked their heads, crowed loudly, and jumped around ritualistically on a city street as you tried to skirt past. It was unsettling.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have put this off for so long. No matter.” He finally turned to look at you, cocking his head to the side as he studied your face. His neat, dark hair was combed properly and was a jarring contrast to his two buds, who were still sitting (only barely) at the table. You thrust your hands deeper into your pockets and shifted on your feet uncomfortably.

“Can we get this over with?” you asked. To your despair, he shook his head.

“I was wrong. This isn’t going to work.”

“What do you mean, it’s not going to work?!” And then the hopeful realization hit you and you leant forwards eagerly. “Listen, if you don’t want me to be your ‘model’ or whatever, that’s fine with me! Give me my USB back.” You were getting increasingly upset at Ushijima for dragging you around like this, especially since he had upset the balance of power so aggressively.

“I want you to live with me.”

“ _Excuse_ me?!” you screamed, losing your composure. You were shaking your head before you even had any words to say. “No. Ushijima, I’m drawing the damn line. You’re blackmailing me, and now you want to kidnap _me_?”

“It isn’t kidnapping if it’s voluntary,” he explained boredly. He scratched his ear and looked at it as he spoke, not even bothering to give you the courtesy of eye contact. “Besides, I only need to observe you for twenty-four hours or so. I can get it painted in fourty-eight and nothing will have changed.” 

“‘Nothing will have changed,’” you mocked with disbelief. “You’re asking a single woman to live with you, a single man, for twenty four hours.”

“Wakatoshi won’t try to hit you up or anything. Kid’s limper than a soggy hotdog,” Eita drawled. You shot him a glare, his attention not even on you as he started drawing lazy circles on his paper. 

“Besides, his roommate Leon’ll give you peace of mind. Leon’s as goody-two-shoes as they get.” Tendou chimed in, twirling the pencil in between his unsettlingly long fingers with a sly grin on his thin lips. You looked back to Ushijima, who was already clearing stuff away, pushing his easel to the wall.

“What happened to the whole ‘unbiased’ thing?” you protested. “Wasn’t that why you started your whole dick move in the first place?”

“Things change.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m taking Honours Calculus for fuck’s sake—I know that things change. You know what doesn’t? This arrangement. I’m not going to live with you.”

“You will if you want your bachelor’s degree,” he said simply, looking at you expectantly. The winter sun had already set, and despite the bright artificial lighting of Studio Six, it felt incredibly dark and cold.

“I can’t believe you,” you said, closing your eyes. “I hate you. I hate you _so_ fucking much.” 

By the time you’d opened your eyes, he’d already left. 

“By stairwell C!” Tendou yelled after you as you grudgingly left, having no choice but to follow after your manipulator. “That’s the best place to f…!”

His voice died away as you walked, along with your will to live.

\---

“So, what. Are you even going to talk to me?”

“No.” His hands were tucked away in his pockets carefully, but despite the neat posture, he still had flecks of multi coloured paint across his skin like alien freckles. His hands were splotchy with residue of paint, too, contrasting hard against his well-kept appearance. You would never have guessed that he was friends with that Tendou or Eita guy. 

“Then what’s the point of me sleeping over?!” you exclaimed, stopping behind him. He didn’t even bother to look back, continuing forwards.

“I already told you. It’s so I can observe.”

“O-observe? And you won’t even talk to me?” Realizing that he wasn’t going to wait for you, you hastily trotted back to speed, still having to do an awkward half-jog to keep up with his longer legs.

“Yes.”

“Why couldn’t you just have let me go home… _fuck_ , I knew I should’ve transferred my thesis to the cloud.”

“You don’t dorm here, do you? You live with your parents?”

“What? Well…” You were surprised that he knew that, but not your name. He gave you a fleeting glance and shrugged.

“I’m sure your mother would be upset with her daughter carting home an art major that smells like marijuana and failure. Right?”

You said nothing, his last line startling you. “Well, do you think you’re going to fail or something?”

“Of course not. But I know your mother’s type. Doctor, engineer, or a lawyer. Right?”

Your head was spinning. This was the most Ushijima had ever talked to you (despite telling you that he wasn’t going to talk to you), and he was pretty much reading your palm and spitting out a bunch of mumbo-jumbo bullshit that was actually… true. You heard your mother’s shrill tone in his low, even one.

_“I’m not trying to force you into anything, but engineers make good money.”_

_“Think of the choices you have if you go to medical school.”_

_“You have to think of the money, not your passions.”_

He kept talking, and again, entirely disregarded your input and lack of it.

“I chose to major in art. The only future for me is to hope that I’ll be lucky. And I have been. I’m the best at what I do.” Another quick glance down at you. He looked away before you could meet his gaze. “But your mother’s type doesn’t believe in hope or luck. I know the type very well.”

You were still silent. Finally, you figured out a question to asked and worded it carefully, your every syllable measured.

“Am _I_ that type?”

He snorted. “I do not know, nor do I care to find out. This is my room.”

He didn’t bother to hold open the door for you, unlocking it and letting it swing shut in your face.

\---

“Wakato—oh, hello. Are you his friend?”

“Far from it.”

His roommate chuckled, a friendly smile spreading across broad, browned features. He nodded at you politely before turning back to Ushijima, who was kicking shoes off of his feet. They were disgusting old tennis runners, white and maroon paint coating the toes—until you noticed that there were no toes to the shoes, holes having split them like a whore’s open legs. Maybe like a dead flower’s wilting cry to life. You shook your head to clear out the pretentious imagery, wondering if you’d accidentally gotten a high off of being near the two Studio Six guys. 

“I’ll be on my research trip in a couple of hours,” the other boy continued. Ushijima grunted.

“Have safe travels.”

“I’m Ohira Reon,” he said brightly, his attention actually turning back to you. He shook your hand, making you wonder how such a friendly (more importantly, how such a _normal_ ) guy could be dorming with such a rude and cold ‘person’. Said ‘person’ disappeared into his room, leaving you standing awkwardly in the living area with Ohira.

“He’s not that bad. It just takes a while to warm him up,” Ohira said wryly, probably realizing what you were thinking. You were about to deny it, before shrugging with preemptive defeat, casting a wistful glance at the closed door.

“I just wish that he’d gone and bullied somebody else.”

Ohira laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s how Wakatoshi is. He gets what he wants, no matter who’s in the way…”

“Well, I’m fuckin’ sick of it,” you mumbled. You looked up at him. “What’s your major?”

“Biochemistry. Weird that they put me with a guy in the arts faculty, right?”

“Yeah… weird,” you agreed. Still, you were glad that you weren’t facing another crazy arts major and felt obligated to keep the conversation running—lest you face having to face Ushijima alone. “I’m engineering. Chemical.”

He nodded. You were just starting to hope that you could pass the time by talking with Ohira instead of Ushijima, but the taller male stood up suddenly, glancing at his watch face.

“Gotta go. I’m catching the midnight flight to Zurich.”

“Germany?” you blurted out, unable to help the desperate tinge of despair. It was going to be a little hard to distract yourself when the only regular guy around was in a whole different continent. He smiled a bit apologetically, patting you on the head twice like he might a baby sibling.

“Wakatoshi’s a good guy. And he seems interested in you. You’ll get along just fine.”

As he left, you couldn’t help but want to tell him that he should’ve pursued a phD in ‘big fat lies’ instead.

You paced around Ushijima’s living room awkwardly. There didn’t seem to be anything distinctive—dorm issued furniture, a couple of plants labeled with specific charts printed right out of Excel (probably the biochemist’s) and then scrap pieces of paper and art tools. You snooped around the papers, hoping to find something out about Ushijima, but there was nothing but hyper realistic drawings. They weren’t bad, though—they were incredibly good, even—but they didn’t tell you anything about him. The most they told you about him was that he was good at art, but you’d already assumed that. 

As you sat down on his couch gingerly, you were faced with nothing but a ticking clock. There wasn’t even a TV to busy yourself with, and you sure as hell weren’t going to ask him for the wi-fi password. You sat, twiddling your thumbs when his words started coming back to you. 

_‘I know the type’_ , he’d said. Then, Ohira had muttered, ‘He gets what he wants, no matter who’s in the way’. Your brain started to whir like it might if you were presented with a series of molecular compounds. You were hopeless when it came to analyzing art pieces. ‘What was the artist trying to say?’ was the question that pissed you off most. Why didn’t people go ask the artist instead? Subjectivity was shit. Science was where truth could be found. You closed your eyes and traced the pattern like you might a series of formulas.

Ushijima’s tone never differed from that of polite neutrality, but maybe, if you were right in your hypothesis… maybe he was carrying around a bit more luggage than an easel. Things weren’t always as they seemed. Maybe things ran a little deeper than old tennis shoes. But in order to prove a thesis, you had to test it. Slowly, you psyched yourself up by running laps around the miniature coffee table. With a deep breath, you finally worked up the nerve. You knocked on his door hesitantly, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear.

“Ushijima? It’s me.”

“Who else?” came the muffled reply, sarcasm practically dripping from the words. “You can come in.”

You did, peering into the dark room. You weren’t sure of what to expect. A gentle glow of an orange reading lamp lit up the bedroom, showcasing a simple bed along with large pieces of canvas. But it was too dark to see them clearly. Nothing was out of the ordinary. There wasn’t even anything on the walls except for a thin university issued calendar with a schedule scribbled in the boxes. One day was circled with striking red: **FINAL DUE**. 

You entered, closing the door behind you. You crept into his room as if you were disturbing the peace, pulling up a chair by his desk and sitting by his bedside. Ushijima was in his bed, knee propped up, staring at his ceiling. You glanced too, but there was nothing there. Nothing you could see, at least. 

“Did I wake you up?” you asked, feigning distant politeness. He shook his head, the sound rustling his pillowcase. He continued to keep quiet and you shifted in the chair, wondering how best to approach this.

“Why’d you major in art?” you blurted out finally, hoping that by just getting it out, it would be less awkward. He turned to stare at you and you realized that it was still very awkward.

“Because…” he answered after a thoughtless pause. “I’m good at it.”

You bit your lip and looked back down at your hands, seeing that you were clutching the hem of your shirt. You relaxed your grip and glanced back up to him, who was still looking up at the hidden sky of truths. 

“Can I ask you something about your parents, Ushijima-san?”

“Yes. And just call me Ushijima. I don’t care for formalities.”

“Oh… okay, Ushijima. Did… are your parents…” Deep breath. “Are they like mine?”

Suddenly he sat up, very slowly, rubbing his head. He turned to look at you again, sleepily, in a way that a person who had just been roused would look. His hair that had been combed out properly before now stuck out at different angles, and his foggy eyes looked a lot more like that of the guys in Studio Six. But there was still something different about him, like a clean slate just underneath. It made you feel that if you just brushed off some of the surface, you’d see something else…

“Yes,” he answered simply. 

“So… they also wanted you to pursue something different than art.”

“Yes. But I didn’t… because I wasn’t good at those things. I didn’t like them.” He picked at the paint on his fingernails, breathing in deep. “Painting has something in it for me. Perhaps math and equations has something in it for you, but I can’t ask you to understand me.”

“You brought me in here so you could get used to me. Or understand me, or whatever.”

“Yes. Isn’t it strange? You’re the one studying how to understand things and I’m the one making things for people to understand.” He lay back down, falling into his pillows with a gentle _whumpf_. Suddenly, he turned to look at you, his amber eyes looking bright against the dim light. “I have a question for you, now.”

“…okay.”

“Do you ever just get… exhausted?”

“Exhausted? Well, I spend a lot of all-nighters cramming—”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean _mental_ exhaustion. Where you can’t think straight because all you can think about is how tired you are. How much you want it to… 

Just stop.”

You were dead silent.

“It’s not just being sad,” he continued, his head turning away from you to look back up at the ceiling. “People get sad all the time. But have you ever been _exhausted_?”

“Yes,” you breathed, feeling shameful to admit it. You looked down at your feet and felt the tears roiling behind your eyes as you said it out loud, admitting to yourself that you weren’t as strong as you made yourself out to be. Because you weren’t. You were just another weakling, just like the rest of them, and in that way the feeling of belonging with mundanes made you feel sick. Nobody was special. Nobody was a star in the great black abyss. Everybody was just another brush stroke on the same canvas and soon, you’d get all covered up, and nobody would remember that they’d made you or that you’d ever been there at all.

You’d just be forgotten, and that made you exhausted.

“Painting… it lifts that away. When I paint, I’m tired, but I’m not exhausted.” He rolled over so that his back faced you and he was talking to the wall. “Not many people understand that.”

“I think… I think that I understand you a little better. Ushijima.”

He turned back to look at you and his eyebrows rose with a flash of surprise when he saw your expression. You sighed loudly before pointing at his bed.

“Can I get in? It was a long day at lectures.”

He snorted gently with amusement but shifted, giving you enough space to slip yourself in underneath the blanket. You wriggled in with familiarity that had been absent not ten minutes ago and felt his arm pressing warmly against yours. Staring up at his ceiling, the scent of his being filled your nostrils.

“Hey, Ushijima?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You’re an asshole for stealing my thesis. But maybe you’re not that bad of an asshole.”

“All right.”

The both of you looked up at the ceiling together, stars hidden behind it. And maybe now, you could see them, see what he had seen… little blotches of white, little brush strokes on a board, and you saw them all. They’d been crushed up and tossed into the world, and they were broken but alive. Was that what he’d seen in you? A broken star trying to make its way? The both of you lay together, legs tangled, tired…

But not exhausted.


	3. OPUS

“I’m finished.”

“…what?”

You’d expected him to be painting you for days. From the way he had acted, you thought that he’d be at it forever, creating some sort of forever Earth-changing masterpiece. But it was only a couple hours later when he stuck his brush into the plastic cup of water, cracking his knuckles. You let your spine relax, but your brow was furrowed.

“You’re really done?” you asked sceptically. He shrugged, rolling his neck out. 

“Not everything, no. But I’m finished with you.”

“How dismissive,” you snorted. Still, the statement had you clenching your jaw a bit with some unexpected hurt. You leapt off the stool and walked towards him to look at the canvas, but to your surprise he grabbed the easel and turned it so that you couldn’t see. You stopped in your steps and raised an eyebrow.

“You painted me. Shouldn’t I at least be able to see it?”

“When it’s done,” he said stubbornly.

“You really always get what you want, don’t you?” you shot. “It’s spoiled of you.”

“That’s not true,” he said softly, almost so quietly that you didn’t hear. He gave you a once-over and then shrugged, stepping back behind the easel. He waved with his free hand as his eyes trained back onto the painting. “Your thesis is in my jacket pocket. You’re free to go.”

“…just like that?” you asked again, this time, hoping for something different. After falling asleep in his bed, he had roused you awake at some time like five in the morning, dragging you quite physically to Studio Six. It was empty, as most places were at the ungodly hour, and he sat you down in the middle of the room. He told you to keep still as possible, which wasn’t hard as you nearly dozed off a couple dozen times. After all that you’d been through, you didn’t think it’d be over in just a couple of brush strokes.

Had your brush stroke already been covered up on the grand canvas?

“Yes,” he muttered absentmindedly, fully immersed back into the painting. You sucked your teeth. Slowly, you made your way to the jacket slung over the chair and rummaged. You found the USB in the first one you checked and tucked it safely into your bag, but you couldn’t help shooting a glance to Ushijima. The sun had risen at this point, but it was still dyed orange. The light it cast into the massive windows of Studio Six made Ushijima look as if he were glowing, his chiselled features softening. Slept-in hair and a comfortable body made him look ethereal and you realized with a jolt that Ushijima was a real star—he was bright and he’d be seen. But you were standing off to the side, a speck of dust that’d already been forgotten. You couldn’t help but see an image of your honour roll certificates tacked up on the fridge with the bills like it was nothing special. What were you? Who would you become? Ushijima knew—he’d already become that. He was a star.

And you were just powder.

Quietly, you left, tucking the tears away as if that might make it a little less painful.

Later, you handed in your thesis. Your professor thanked you without even looking and you found yourself free of business. Wandering the hallways, people’s eyes moved to yours and then away. It was as if you didn’t even exist. You’d been valedictorian, top of your class, top of the game… but who were _you_? Perhaps the better question was what _are_ you?

Nothing?

It didn’t take long before you found yourself loitering around the stairway Tendou had told you about. Your hand splayed across the cold metal of the railing and you closed your eyes, straining your ears. Sure enough, you could hear the wet sounds of filthy love, hidden away in the shadows. A girl laughed. You weren’t repulsed, but you turned away nonetheless, feeling heavier than before. Despite the sluggishness a seed of panic planted itself in your gut and you continued to roam, a wide pace, fear knotting up your stomach as apathy turned your heart to crumbling white chalk.

“Back again, huh?”

You looked up at Tendou, who was chewing on something. It wasn’t another painting he was sucking on, but just a regular pencil, and he looked a bit more innocent in the sun than he did under the halogen spotlights. You looked over and saw the open door of Studio Six.

“Oh… my bad,” you mumbled, ashamed to have been caught loitering. You shrugged and was about to turn to scamper into retreat before Tendou offered something to you. You hesitated before taking it and Tendou snickered.

“It’s not anything bad,” he promised, but you had little faith in his words. He sighed when you continued to stare down at the package in his hands warily. “C’mon. It’s from Toshi.”

“Isn’t he still in there?” you asked, pointing into the Studio. Tendou shrugged cryptically.

“You gonna take it or what?”

You did. Tendou left you alone after that, patting you once on the shoulder as he walked past. Slowly, you opened the manila folder and your breath hitched as you faced yourself. They were messy draft sketches with a too-dull pencil, but it was you all the same, undeniably so. Your heads dotted the paper from different angles, and Ushijima had even caught the way your scowl narrowed one eye more than the other. You sorted through the papers greedily, your eyes catching on the way he’d caught all your details, and you suddenly felt even more hopeless than before. You slumped to the ground, your back cold against the equally cold wall as you buried your face in your heads. That was just it. This was all you were. You were easy enough to catch in a few pencil strokes. You were grainy powder in an expansive network of put-together stars. One question rose, snaking to the front of your thoughts like a discordant guitar string’s hum.

Who are you going to become if you’re nothing now and nothing then?

The package lay on the floor outside of Studio Six when Ushijima exited, neatly folded back together. He stooped low to pick it up, turning it over in his hands. He glanced back to the canvas he’d packed up on the desk and then down to the folder in his hands, sighing heavily. 

The day of the gallery came as a complete surprise to you. Your life had returned to normal after your encounter with Ushijima. You did little but go to school and study, doing things for the sake of doing them. You were walking in the hallway towards the library when something caught your eye, and then, just like the night you’d stood in the dark hall in front of the brightly lit Studio Six, you saw yourself. 

Ushijima’s skill was easily evident. You looked just like you. He’d turned paint into light somehow, translucent skin shifting into soft but dry hair and then to the rough fabric of your clothes. But your eyes were what caught your attention most.

_Have you ever been… exhausted?_

The person in the painting looked alive. You squinted and even walked a few ways to the left to make sure you were seeing it right. There was light captured in your eyes—they were yours, but they weren’t at the same time, and you found yourself wondering if Ushijima was even as good as he said he was. That couldn’t be you. That person was a star, and you were just—

“I thought I’d find you here sometime.”

You turned as Ushijima yawned into a hand, scratching his head as he stood beside you. He was ragged, as if he hadn’t slept for days, which wouldn’t have surprised you. He looked up at his painting with a blank expression, and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting out,

“Why’d you do that to me?”

“Do what?” he asked, glancing at you. You pointed at yourself up on the wall, who was smiling vaguely as if that version of you knew something more about you than you yourself did.

“Make me look like that,” you accused, almost angry. “I don’t. Are you blind or something?”

“I told you. I chose you because I paint what I see.” Despite the serious tone that belonged in his low tones, he had a smile raising the corners of his lips, sparking off your annoyance even more.

“I don’t get it. _This_ is what you went through all that trouble for? You could’ve picked anybody else—somebody prettier, or somebody—”

“Somebody else could’ve worked. But somebody else isn’t you. You’re the only one that can be you.”

“I doubt it,” you spat out with the sudden weight of the self-deprecation you’d been carting around. You even laughed. “There’s people smarter than me, better looking than me, kinder than me… so why me? Why choose the shitty reject when you could’ve had a star?”

You didn’t expect him to answer. He was that kind of guy, the one that left you hanging, so you turned away and walked off. He didn’t chase you, but his soft voice stopped you dead anyways.

“Is that all you are?”

You turned, the yes on your tongue, but you couldn’t say it. He was looking at you in a way that made you stop, that made time stop, and you stammered.

“W-well…”

“I paint what I see,” he repeated, taking a step towards you. His chin touched your chin like it had the first time you met him, and he lifted your head up towards him, those same eyes scanning your features. Latching onto them. Learning them. He let go of you again, but you could feel the warmth coming off of him, and you could not look away from his eyes. Quietly, he intoned in a voice only you could hear, “even if you can’t.”

“But…” you protested weakly, unsure of what you were even arguing for. Tears were welling in your eyes again and he had another smile on his face, distant, but knowing. His large hands brushed a tear off the tip of your nose skilfully. 

“ _You’re_ the smart one here,” he said in a teasing tone that you didn’t think could come out of the giant man. “Want to disprove me?”

You began to cry in earnest, but the worst thing was, you didn’t even know why. You were always used to knowing things—how to do a complicated math equation, how atoms built up the world—but you had never known anything at all. You’d never been who you thought you were. You’d never known.

But maybe somebody else did.

Ushijima drew you up into his arms a bit awkwardly, allowing you to muffle your embarrassingly loud sobs in his shirt. He held you up until you pulled yourself together enough to stand on your own, and once he let go, you could still feel him on you. 

There was always going to be somebody better. There was always going to be somebody worse. Maybe you’d always be the middle one and maybe you’d always be mundane—but you were you. You turned back to look at the painting propped up on the wall, their eyes shining with a deep understanding, an almost approving smile on their lips.

“You made me a star,” you whispered hoarsely with new realization. He shrugged.

“You always were one. I just painted what I saw.”

Silently, you tore your eyes away from theirs—yours—and looked to his. He looked surprised with the sudden change in your expression and you couldn’t help a thin smile.

“Have you eaten?” you asked, fully aware that it was abrupt. Ushijima noticed as well but went with it, shaking his head.

“Come on,” you said agreeably, turning and walking. “I’ll make you something.”

He followed after but had an eyebrow raised. “I thought you hated me,” he reminded, a bite of amusement locked in the words. You couldn’t help but laugh gently.

“I do. You’re an ass. But I’ve got to thank you, still.”

“All right then. I like hayashi rice.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

The both of you walked together. His footsteps were heavy and yours were light, the beats combining into a sort of heartbeat. It’s a big world, and it’s hopeless, and it’s dark, and it’s cold. It’ll always be that way. It’s a black canvas lit up by hot, flaming stars; it’s a blank sheet built up of overlapping strokes. 

But when you walked by him, it felt just a little warmer, and you thought that you were knowing yourself just a little bit more.

**Ushijima Wakatoshi  
 _Powdered Stars_  
Acrylic on canvas**

**Author's Note:**

> Elsewhere: https://goo.gl/aMG6kb


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